The Laird’s Masked Desire (The Lairds’ Sinful Masquerade #1)

Prologue

The castle, though built of stone and governed by order, was never wholly without sound.

Margaret moved through its corridors with an ease born not only of familiarity, but of habit.

She had long since learned where voices carried, where footsteps softened, and where one might pass unremarked.

On this occasion, however, she was not inclined toward quiet observation, but toward a more immediate concern.

“Eleonor?” she called, pausing at the bend of a passage. “Where have ye gone now?”

There was no reply. Margaret allowed herself the smallest smile. It was not uncommon for her sister to withdraw.

She continued on.

It was only when she reached the far end of the corridor that she observed something amiss. A curtain, which was heavy and seldom disturbed, fluttered in a manner that could not be attributed to chance.

Margaret approached it at once, her amusement returning.

“Me dear Eleonor,” she began, drawing the fabric aside, “ye cannae suppose that I shouldnae—” But she wasn’t allowed to continue.

She was interrupted by brisk movement. Eleonor seized her hand and pulled her within, the curtain falling closed behind them with a finality that extinguished both light and levity alike.

“Hush.”

The command was scarcely more than a breath, yet it admitted no disobedience. Eleonor’s finger was pressed to her lips, her expression intent in a manner Margaret had never seen in her before.

Margaret stilled from the sudden, unmistakable sense that something was not as it ought to be.

“What is…” she began, but again, the words did not form.

There were voices. They were unfamiliar ones, and at first, she thought that they had to be servants. But then, she realized that they came from the adjoining chamber.

Their father’s study.

Margaret’s gaze darted instinctively toward the door, though it remained out of sight beyond the curtain. The study was not a place to which they were ever admitted. Its threshold alone carried with it a prohibition that neither of them had ever thought to question.

And yet, the voices were clear.

“… it is already settled.”

The words reached them distinctly, though the tone in which they were spoken carried a quiet authority that made them no less imposing.

Another voice answered. “There is nay benefit in delay.”

Margaret felt Eleonor’s hand tighten around hers. They could not move.

“… the arrangement will proceed,” came the first voice again.

“And the lass?” a third inquired.

A pause followed. Margaret’s breath slowed, not from ease, but from attention so complete it left no room for anything else.

“She will comply.”

There was no uncertainty in it. Margaret’s tension did not ease, though something within her had already begun to settle into understanding.

“… Laird MacGregor expects the matter tae be concluded,” the second voice continued. “It has been discussed.”

The name was not unfamiliar.

Kenneth MacGregor.

It carried with it a reputation that required no elaboration.

“… it is the most advantageous course, marrying me youngest,” their father said in a voice that was untouched by hesitation or doubt. “The matter will proceed accordingly.”

And there it was. A decision made, without their acknowledgement. Margaret felt the meaning of it gather, piece by piece, until it stood whole and undeniable before her.

The lass.

The arrangement.

MacGregor.

Eleonor.

Her fingers tightened around her sister’s hand, though she did not speak. She felt as if something had stolen her ability to speak. For in that moment, there was no longer anything uncertain in what they had heard.

Eleonor was to be given.

The voices did not continue long. Whether the conversation had reached its natural end or was carried elsewhere, Margaret could not say, but after a moment there came a quiet so complete it was more alarming than the sound that had preceded it.

Eleonor did not wait to confirm it. She seized Margaret’s hand and drew her swiftly from behind the curtain, the fabric falling back into place as though it had never been disturbed. They stood in the corridor, looking and listening, but there was nothing more to be heard.

Then they ran with the urgency of those who know they could not be seen. Their steps were quick, as they turned through familiar passages without pause until, at last, they reached the door of their chamber.

Eleonor pushed it closed behind them with more force than was her habit. And then, she turned. Whatever composure she had held until that moment gave way entirely.

“Nay,” she said, the word breaking from her with a force that startled even Margaret. “Nay, I cannae… I willnae…”

Her hands trembled as she pressed them to her temples, pacing once across the room before stopping again, her breath unsteady.

“I cannae marry that man,” she said, more quietly now, though no less resolute. “I willnae.”

Margaret moved toward her at once. “Eleonor—”

“There is only one man I would ever marry,” she continued, and the words tumbled over one another as though they had long been held and could no longer be contained. “Only one and ye ken it. Stephen Allway, and nay other. And Faither will never… he would never…” This was where her voice faltered.

The certainty of it seemed to strike her all at once.

“He will never give his consent,” she divulged with the last of her strength in the matter draining. “He would sooner—”

Margaret took her hands. “Then he must nae ken.”

Eleonor stilled. The words did not at once make sense.

“What?” she asked, her voice scarcely more than a whisper.

Margaret’s expression did not waver.

“He cannae refuse what he is never asked tae permit,” she explained.

Eleonor searched her face. The confusion was slowly being substituted by the dawning of understanding.

“That is madness,” she said, though not with conviction. “He would… if he finds out…”

“He willnae,” Margaret assured her with a calm that seemed, in that moment, wholly uncharacteristic and yet entirely her own. “Nae if it is done properly. And when he daes find out, it will be too late fer him tae change anything.”

The admission wasn’t as difficult as she thought it would be. Eleonor drew a breath. Her earlier agitation was not gone, but at least now, she was not merely fearful. She was also hopeful.

“And what,” she asked, “would we dae?”

Margaret’s lips curved, not in amusement, but in certainty.

“I have a plan,” she said, suddenly remembering her father mentioning it to one of the visitors prior to these. “The Masquerade. That is where he means tae send ye.”

Margaret did not look at her as she continued. It was easier to think if she fixed her gaze upon the far wall and saw, instead of paneling and candlelight, the shape of the danger before them.

“He believes that once ye are there, once ye are masked and cloaked among the others, the matter will be beyond recall. If Kenneth MacGregor chooses ye, if the arrangement is made before witnesses and under sanction, then Faither need only accept what he has himself contrived.”

Eleonor’s voice shook. “Then what can be done?”

Margaret turned. “What can be done is that he need never send ye at all.”

Her sister only looked at her. Margaret saw the confusion first, then hope, then fear of hope itself.

“Ye will go tae Falkland,” Margaret said, and at once Eleonor began to shake her head.

“Nay, Margaret, I cannae—”

“Ye will go,” Margaret repeated, “but ye willnae remain.”

She crossed to her sister again and lowered her voice, though there was no one near enough to hear.

“At the Masquerade all are masked. Names are forbidden. Faces are concealed. Nay one is meant tae ken one lady from another until the claims are made and the private arrangements begin.” She held Eleonor’s gaze. “That is our advantage.”

Eleonor drew a breath, but said nothing.

“I will take yer place.”

Eleonor’s lips parted, but no sound came, so Margaret continued before objection could form.

“Ye and I are near enough in height. With the proper gown, the proper cloak, and yer mask, nay one will look twice, provided I dinnae invite notice. I will remain quiet. I will stay among the shadows. I need only endure the evening until the matter is done.”

“Margaret…” Eleonor’s voice broke entirely. “Nay. Nay, ye cannae mean it.”

“I dae.”

“But if ye are discovered—”

“I must nae be discovered,” Margaret said. “And I dinnae mean tae be.”

Eleonor stepped back, pressing one hand to her mouth as though to contain either a sob or a protest.

“He might choose ye,” she spoke at last, the words escaping with visible difficulty. “Another man, I mean, some stranger. If he did—”

Margaret was calm. In fact, she was much calmer than she thought she would be.

“He willnae.”

“Ye cannae ken that.”

“Nay,” Margaret agreed, “but I ken this: I am less likely tae attract interest from men who attend such spectacles in search of novelty, and I have nay intention of making meself remarkable. I shall keep tae the edges, speak tae nay one if I may avoid it, and depart the instant I can. Faither will believe ye have obeyed him. By the time he learns otherwise, ye must be gone.”

Eleonor had begun to cry very quietly.

“And Stephen?” Eleonor asked. “How am I tae go tae him? Where? When?”

“At once, once we are there.” Margaret spoke with increased precision now, for this was the part that mattered most. “Ye must be dressed as me maid before we leave our chambers. Nay one looks closely at servants when there is a pageant tae be attended. We will find some small room, some closet or passage where nay one is expected tae linger. There we shall exchange clothes. Ye will take the gown meant fer yer maid and go out by the servants’ corridors.

Stephen must be waiting beyond the palace grounds. ”

Eleonor lowered her hand slowly from her mouth.

“Ye have thought of everything.”

Margaret did not smile. “I have thought of enough.”

It was not the same thing.

“What if Faither sees me before I get away?”

“He willnae be looking fer a maid.” Margaret’s tone hardened, not from cruelty, but necessity. “And if he is, then ye must lower yer head and keep walking. Fear is natural, but hesitation will ruin us.”

Eleonor nodded, though her tears had not yet ceased. That made Margaret gentle slightly.

“Once ye are gone, ye must nae attempt tae send word at once. That would be foolish and too easily discovered. We will agree upon a place, somewhere neither too near nor too obvious and one week after the ball I will meet ye there, if I can. If I cannae, ye must wait nay longer than a day and then continue on.”

“A week,” Eleonor repeated, as though fixing it into her soul.

“A week,” Margaret agreed. “Enough time fer me tae ken whether I am suspected, and enough fer ye tae be at a safe distance if all goes well.”

Eleonor took a step toward her. “Ye speak as though ye are certain.”

Margaret met her gaze. “I am determined. That must serve.”

Her sister’s face crumpled then, not with childish helplessness, but with the gratitude of one who has been offered hope at the very instant she believed none remained.

“I cannae ask this of ye.”

“Ye arenae asking,” Margaret replied, taking her by the hand. “I am offering.”

That, at last, produced the faintest, most broken little laugh. It vanished almost at once.

“But what will happen tae ye?” Eleonor suddenly asked. “When Faither learns? When they discover it was ye?”

Margaret’s heart gave one hard beat against her ribs. She had thought of it. She had merely refused, until now, to dwell upon it.

“He will be angry,” she answered with more calm than she felt. “He may be furious. But by then, ye will be gone, and that is what matters. Naething is yet signed. Naething is yet settled. And he cannae drag ye back if he cannae find ye.”

Eleonor searched her face as if trying to distinguish bravery from recklessness. Perhaps Margaret could not have distinguished them herself.

At length, Eleonor whispered. “And if something goes wrong?”

Margaret took both her sister’s hands this time and held them tightly.

“Then ye must nae stop,” she urged tenderly. “Dae ye understand me? If anything goes wrong, if I am delayed, if I am questioned, if there is confusion, ye must still go. Ye must nae turn back fer me. Ye must nae wait.”

Eleonor shook her head at once. “I could never leave ye.”

“Ye must.”

“Nay.”

“Ye must,” Margaret repeated, and there was such force in her voice now that Eleonor at last fell silent. “Because if ye dinnae, then all of this is fer naething.”

The room seemed suddenly too small to contain them both. Outside, the castle carried on in its usual manner, utterly indifferent to the fact that two daughters within it had just decided to hazard everything against a father’s will.

At last Eleonor nodded, only once, but it was enough.

Margaret drew a careful breath. “Then it is settled.”

And though nothing had yet been done, though the risk still lay ahead of them, and the danger had only just acquired a shape, the words, once spoken, made it feel terribly real.